It's weird being a writer.
Most of the time I feel just on the verge of falling down the rabbit hole. As though if I don't hold myself together very tightly, I will go careening into the universe in a mess of atoms and whatever I ate that day for lunch. It's exhausting holding my molecules together. But it's worth it when I put all the words together and make something incredible. A book. There is no greater reward.
When I sleep, it all falls apart. I have incredibly vivid dreams usually involving something terrifying chasing me or my family members. I wake up and it's like I didn't sleep at all. But that doesn't stop me from staying up until the wee hours because I'm absolutely wide awake when the world is sleeping. It's when I work the best.
I think when you tap into a certain part of the imagination as often as I do, you thin the boundaries that separate dreams from reality. It's why writers are so eccentric (crazy) and likely why some find themselves in a hospital (mental asylum) one day.
My husband claims that writing full time has turned me into "hot mess." I'm stuck in that fantasy world from the time I write the first word to the moment where I type "the end." It's a running joke in our house.
Don't mind Mom, she's working on a book. She's not really here right now.
Except the more I do this job, the less time there is between books. It used to be that I'd have to take a month off, sometimes more, just to recover after finishing a book. Sometimes I'd cry a little (Hello. Book three of Niki Slobodian DESTROYED me). Then I'd feel a little better, and a little better. Then one day I'd have an itch and I'd start the next one.
It took me a day the last time.
I didn't even finish editing Niki 5 before I started plotting Blood Day. And I've been in it ever since. And Blood Day is DARK. Maybe the darkest I've ever worked on. Am I insane to keep doing this to myself? Well, yes, I am. But sometimes I feel I'm not so much a person as a writer who is sometimes a person. I'm a hot mess all the time now. I miss appointments. I run out of gas. And my nightmares are crazier than ever. But you know, I think it's worth it.
People read this thing you made. It used to be nothing, and now it's a thing. And sometimes, if you're lucky, and you work very hard, they will say to you, "You made this thing, and it's beautiful. I love this thing. This is the best thing I have ever read. Can you make more things?"
Yes. I will make things. Always. And it doesn't matter how long it takes, or how much I have to work to get it done, I will make more things. And I hope that someday, someone else will find them beautiful, too.
I fall down the rabbit hole over and over. But it's okay, because that's what I'm supposed to do. I'm a writer.
Most of the time I feel just on the verge of falling down the rabbit hole. As though if I don't hold myself together very tightly, I will go careening into the universe in a mess of atoms and whatever I ate that day for lunch. It's exhausting holding my molecules together. But it's worth it when I put all the words together and make something incredible. A book. There is no greater reward.
When I sleep, it all falls apart. I have incredibly vivid dreams usually involving something terrifying chasing me or my family members. I wake up and it's like I didn't sleep at all. But that doesn't stop me from staying up until the wee hours because I'm absolutely wide awake when the world is sleeping. It's when I work the best.
I think when you tap into a certain part of the imagination as often as I do, you thin the boundaries that separate dreams from reality. It's why writers are so eccentric (crazy) and likely why some find themselves in a hospital (mental asylum) one day.
My husband claims that writing full time has turned me into "hot mess." I'm stuck in that fantasy world from the time I write the first word to the moment where I type "the end." It's a running joke in our house.
Don't mind Mom, she's working on a book. She's not really here right now.
Except the more I do this job, the less time there is between books. It used to be that I'd have to take a month off, sometimes more, just to recover after finishing a book. Sometimes I'd cry a little (Hello. Book three of Niki Slobodian DESTROYED me). Then I'd feel a little better, and a little better. Then one day I'd have an itch and I'd start the next one.
It took me a day the last time.
I didn't even finish editing Niki 5 before I started plotting Blood Day. And I've been in it ever since. And Blood Day is DARK. Maybe the darkest I've ever worked on. Am I insane to keep doing this to myself? Well, yes, I am. But sometimes I feel I'm not so much a person as a writer who is sometimes a person. I'm a hot mess all the time now. I miss appointments. I run out of gas. And my nightmares are crazier than ever. But you know, I think it's worth it.
People read this thing you made. It used to be nothing, and now it's a thing. And sometimes, if you're lucky, and you work very hard, they will say to you, "You made this thing, and it's beautiful. I love this thing. This is the best thing I have ever read. Can you make more things?"
Yes. I will make things. Always. And it doesn't matter how long it takes, or how much I have to work to get it done, I will make more things. And I hope that someday, someone else will find them beautiful, too.
I fall down the rabbit hole over and over. But it's okay, because that's what I'm supposed to do. I'm a writer.
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